Just another night
by Mayjune1
Summary: Just a short story about Sam trying to sleep. Nothing heavy or miserable - which makes it an unusual Sam story for me! Contains two swear words but nothing else worrisome.


**Just another night**

Sam was thinking about Piper.

It had been months since their one night of lust in the back of the car, but it still kind of stung that she hadn't wanted his number. Man, she would have been a whole lot better to snuggle up against than just a threadbare sheet in another faceless motel.

He reached over and lifted up his cell. 2.47am. He looked over at his sleeping, snoring, farting brother and dropped the phone back on the side table.

He really didn't miss these road trips. Even with having the bunker as a permanent base, travelling the country was still always going to be part of the job description. Sam reckoned he and Dean had slept in more different beds than anyone else alive. Kicking the sheets around his legs, he rolled over and stared past the neon glow outside the curtained window trying to work it out. Six months old to thirty-four years old. Take off a couple years to discount bunker-life. And the too-brief time with Amelia. Oh, and the period at Stanford, several lifetimes ago. That was 365 multiplied by, say, 31 or 32. If he averaged out that sometimes, back in the day, they could spend up to five or six days in the same motel that would mean…. He got bored trying to work it out. The answer was 'a lot'. _Thousands_. Maybe even _tens_ of thousands. Bits of his skin cells, his DNA, mixing with thousands of other peoples, all over the States. Best he try not to think about it really.

Sometimes (no, _frequently)_ he had nights like this. When something buzzing around at the back of his brain kept him up and awake, even though he wanted nothing more than to just fall the fuck asleep. It didn't have to be anything specific – an encounter with any one of a hundred memories was enough to stop him from relaxing enough to drop off. Once that fly got stuck in the web of his brain, then that was that. The trick was not to stress it too much. He'd sleep in the car on the way back home tomorrow if he had to.

He tried his equivalent of counting sheep - running lore through his head. Something long and boring and mildly distracting. A list of all the herbs that could be made into spells. He got as far as bay leaf and gave up.

Instead, he began dwelling on the minor obsession he had had since childhood. One line, written in dad's journal had always, _always_ bugged the shit out of him. All it said was 'Gastropod psychica' followed by three exclamation marks.

Gastropod psychica. That literally translated to 'Psychic snail'. _I mean, what the hell?_ Had dad found some kind of psychic snail? _Really?_ What would it even do? How would you even know? It was so bizarre and weird and why would dad write that? He'd stopped talking about it with Dean by the time he was thirteen – all his brother did was laugh at him. And then when he stopped laughing, he'd laugh some more. Dean said dad had put it in there on purpose as a mind-fuck, that was all. But Sam didn't entirely believe it – the one thing dad never joked about was the supernatural – he wouldn't have put it in the journal if it was a joke. Maybe.

He'd even, during one very quiet week in the cage, asked Lucifer about the Gastropod psychica. Y'know, seeing as he was millennia-old and had a considerable knowledge base when it came to that kind of thing. Sam had thought the archangel was going to cough up both lungs, he'd laughed so hard. _Psychic snails…psychic snails_?! Oh, it had kept Lucifer amused for months.

He swung his legs out of bed and padded over to the small table, socks vaguely sticking to the carpet with every step. He flipped open the laptop and waited as it booted up, the pale glow lighting up his hands and forearms. He absentmindedly rubbed at a thin silver scar near his wrist until the log on page appeared. Straight to Google he typed, as he had done so many times in the past, 'Gastropod psychica'. Nothing new appeared – just the same Dr Who references and irrelevant links he had long ago discounted.

Irritated, feeling like the same fool he always did when he went too far down the psychic snail rabbit hole, he snapped the laptop shut a bit too loudly. Dean opened one eye and saw Sam at the table.

"Make sure you delete the history Sammy – I don't want to see what kind of websites keep you up at night…"

Sam huffed and ignored him. Padded on back to bed and picked up his cell again. 3.31am. No new calls, emails or texts.

"Seriously?" Dean whinged. "Come on already with the gadgets – it's the middle of the damn night and the place is lit up like Vegas."

"Just go to sleep Dean." Sam put the phone back down and began punching the pillow into something resembling a pillow shape.

"Already there" muttered Dean.

"Of course you are." Sam bellyached. "You're like sleeping fucking beauty."

"Why thank you." Dean murmured.

Sam rolled his eyes. He lay on his back, staring at the dark ceiling. His left knee itched and he rubbed at it. Then the right one joined in so he scratched at that too. Wished he was back at the bunker. Cas didn't sleep and Sam enjoyed the late night chats they sometimes had when the buzzing in his brain turned into a hammering drill and the only respite was to throw himself into lore books in the library.

Maybe a restroom trip would help. He untangled himself from the sheets for the second time that night, and stepped over to the small bathroom. Leaving the light off, he located the pan in the dark and began to pee – wincing at how loud it sounded. He expected a shout from Dean at any moment. He washed his hands when he was done, and slowly crept back towards the bed, semi-dreading getting back into it again.

He climbed in and began shifting about trying to find a comfortable spot. He ended up on his stomach, one arm underneath the thin pillow.

Maybe thinking about Piper again would help. Instead he found himself thinking about Crowley. Which then made him think of Hell. Which brought up a whole chapter of memories called 'Nope, not if I want any sleep ever again'.

So he scratched at his knee a bit more and then forced himself to lay still. Half an hour, he told himself. Keep your eyes closed and do not move for half an hour. See what happens.

The first three minutes were the worst. He got itchy, and was sure he heard something move in the corner of the room. But he kept his hands where they were and didn't open his eyes. The next six minutes passed by even more slowly. Then at one point, he wasn't sure anymore how many minutes had gone by. He took that as a good sign and began to breathe slowly. Which was great, until his cell suddenly vibrated loudly. And then again. And then again.


End file.
